


You Can Have My Everything

by Morimaitar



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Decisions, Beating, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Developing Relationship, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Bad at Feelings, Enemies to Lovers, Forgiveness, Hypothermia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd is Bad at Feelings, JayDick Summer Exchange, Lazarus Pit Madness, M/M, Maybe They Should Hug Each Other, Missions Gone Wrong, Multiple Points of View, Past Rape/Non-con, Pining, Post-Under the Red Hood, Reluctant Soulmates, Slow Burn, Threats of Violence, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25790233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morimaitar/pseuds/Morimaitar
Summary: The plan should have been easy: capture Nightwing, and prove to the world that Batman is no hero. But when a small mistake reveals a startling truth, the Red Hood is forced to confront everything he knows about himself and the man he used to love.Dick Grayson was supposed to be Jason's revenge. He was never supposed to be his soulmate.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 61
Kudos: 566
Collections: JayDick Summer Exchange 2020





	You Can Have My Everything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stribird (timidGoddess)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timidGoddess/gifts).



> Prompt 3: _Soulmate AU mixed with enemies to lovers! Wherein when you meet your soulmate and touch them for the first time you can share sensations/memories and sense what your soulmate's true emotions are._
> 
> This was so much fun to write. Thanks Stri for the awesome prompt. I might have gone a little too crazy with it.
> 
> Title comes from "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails

The hour after, Jason stares at his hands and pretends he does not know. 

It should have been easy. All signs pointed to easy: Chemo had ensured that Blüdhaven would need a savior, that Dick Grayson would be desperate to prove he had not failed her people. Jason needed only take a few survivors—a dozen of Blüdhaven’s most vulnerable—get the Golden Boy’s attention, and offer him a deal. _You for them._ And Dick would protest, tell him that _you don’t have to do this,_ and _there’s another way._ But Dick, always the hero, already bore the weight of a hundred thousand deaths. Twelve more would surely kill him. He would trade himself for the civilians without a second thought.

And he did. 

Even now Jason can still see his finger on the trigger, can still feel the soft heat of Dick’s neck in the crook of his arm, can still taste the frustration and desperation and heartbreak that radiated from his skin. It is clear as glass in his mind, all of it. 

He remembers drops of sweat falling down Dick’s brow, settling in the grooves of his mask, trapping dark locks of hair against his skin. He remembers tightening his grip on Dick’s windpipe, listening to the man gasp in discomfort or grief or both. The way Dick’s limbs were so stiff that it seemed a rough wind could snap him in two. How, as he pressed the barrel of the gun to Dick’s temple, he searched his eyes for signs of recognition and found none. The face beside his was warped into something pained: brow tense, full lips parted in a silent plea. Despair, fear, resignation—the emotion hadn’t mattered at the time. 

_This is Dick Grayson,_ Jason had thought, before he plunged the needle into the man’s neck. _The first Robin. The perfect son._

His captive. 

Now Jason’s eyes are following the lines in his palms, the way they curve toward the base of his forefingers. His lifelines are particularly long. Irony, perhaps, or maybe a peculiar coincidence. There is no such thing as destiny. Or at least there shouldn’t be. 

He doesn’t believe in soulmates. 

After a moment, he tears away his gaze and goes back to reloading magazines, cleaning the blood from the grooves of his knife. He tries and fails to think about something else, and when he can no longer stand the sight of his bare skin, retrieves his gloves from the table of equipment. If only they never came off. If only he didn’t underestimate Dick’s tolerance of tranqs. If only he used his head and restrained himself when he saw the barest hint of consciousness. If only he didn’t strike him. If only he didn’t find himself drawn into Dick’s thoughts, feelings, memories. 

It was a mistake. It didn’t happen. It _couldn’t_ have happened.

Dick is unconscious once more on the floor of the bunker, wrists cuffed and chained to the wall. His temple is bloodied from Jason’s fist, but just barely. What little blood there is has dried and cracked, nearly brown, like an old ribbon curling down his cheek. 

_Hardly a blow,_ Jason thinks. Their skin had met for what, a quarter of a second? Less? And Dick was still reeling from the tranq, and Jason hasn’t slept since Bruce chose to side with _him,_ and they’re both worn thin by the demands of this life. It didn’t happen. They both imagined it. 

And yet Jason can’t turn away. His feet are rooted to the floor, and his eyes are fixed on the man in chains, and the longer he stays still the more he feels himself breaking apart. 

They’ve touched before. Years ago, when he was a scabby little street rat, and Dick Grayson was the most perfect thing he had ever seen. Back then, Dick was an idol of sorts, a bronze statue of a human being. The first and best Robin, the first and best son. And of course he was beautiful, _of course_ he was. Still is. All lines and angles, like an artist’s study in portraiture. It was only natural that, when their fingers brushed for the first time, Jason would feel nothing. No transfer of emotions, no foreign thoughts pouring into his head. Nothing. People like him aren’t fated to be with people like _that._

Besides, fate doesn’t exist. This—whatever _this_ is—is bullshit. There has to have been a mistake, some cosmic fuck-up that made them think they felt each other.

So why can’t he move?

 _Touch him again,_ says the voice in his head, but he can’t. He’s standing at the edge of the abyss, and the slightest movement will fling him into darkness. 

It takes the crackle of his radio to break him out of it. “Shit,” Jason mumbles, fumbling with the buttons until the sound goes away. The police chatter has been nonstop since Blüdhaven blew, since Bruce sliced open his throat and set the Joker free in Gotham. 

Right. The mission. He squeezes the radio in his gloved fist, casting another quick glance at the figure across the room. One word to the right channel, and his loyal men—what few remain—would burn a message into Bruce’s hunting grounds. _Will you fail him too?_

Press the button.

Press the button.

Press the button, and make him pay.

 _Let him fail another son,_ the voice says. _Show him that he is not a father, has never been a father. Hurt him as much as he hurt you._

The wound on his neck begins to itch. Jason lets his fingers hover over the clumsy stitches, resisting the urge to tear them out and let the blood wash down his torso. It would be so easy to do it. Just a few tugs, a bottle of vodka, and fifteen minutes. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. Then, because he knows Dick will not wake, he says it again, louder this time. _“Fuck!”_

 _Not enough,_ laughs the voice. 

Jason drives his boot into a folding chair. It crashes into the metal shelving units, and the sound is enough to rattle his teeth. 

_Not enough._

He kicks the table. A box of bullets tips over the edge, scatters its contents across the floor. 

_Not enough! Never enough!_

The pressure inside him is building, building, loud and thick as tar. And Jason can feel the stinging heat of the pit, the dull weight of Bruce’s fists, and Dick was supposed to be his revenge, but now he’s lying on the floor, bloodied and unconscious and _perfect._

With a snarl, he throws his fist into the wall. Once. Twice. Pain radiates from his knuckles, racing toward his upper arm. Jason grits his teeth and hits the wall again. Again. Each blow is a soft thud against the cement. _Thud. Thud. Thud._ He can tell that his knuckles have split; the raw skin stings each time it makes contact with the wall. 

Pain is good. Pain is forgetting. Pain is living, and living is pain. 

When his vision clears, Jason falls against the wall and gasps for breath. No, not gasping. Laughing. It leaves him in short, angry bursts, raking up the sides of his throat and falling from his mouth. 

Fuck. Maybe the pit did more than wake him up. Maybe he really is fucking crazy. 

At least that would explain the _touch._

Jason slides down to the floor. The laughter has faded to an echo in his head, a tingle in his arms. One of his knuckles might be broken, or perhaps it’s merely swollen and the bones are fine. If he were willing to take off his gloves he would check. But he isn’t, so he won’t. 

Across the room, Dick’s breaths are coming evenly. In, out. In, out. Jason starts to match the rhythm, if only to calm the pounding in his chest.

In, out. In, out. 

He’s still beautiful, after all these years. Even in uniform, even bloodied, even unconscious, still beautiful. Jason finds himself lost in the tapestry of Dick’s face, wanting to break it, itching to cut it, aching to run his fingers along the curve of that jaw. Beautiful, god damn it. Beautiful and— 

Awake.

***

Dick understands the way of things. 

He remembers his parents, the way their hands would touch at breakfast, or before a show. Just the pinky fingers, flitting over each other. Even as a small child, Dick knew that something was passing between them, something that couldn’t be heard or seen. 

“We were fated to be together,” his dad said, once Dick was old enough. And by then he had learned more, seen more: strangers in the crowd, two people brushing hands or arms and gasping. “Do you know what that means?”

Yes, he did. A touch is a promise. The mutual exchange of emotions, senses, memories; the trust that these things will be kept safe. 

He has seen it happen a dozen times, and waited for it two dozen more. Babs. Kori. Wally. Donna. They touch, and he feels their warmth and their love, and he offers his own in return. But that is not enough. 

Dick understands the way of things. When it happens, you know. And he knew. Or at least, he thinks he did. 

He’s drugged. That’s the first thing he thinks of, when consciousness and memory comes flooding back. Lying limp on a cold, hard surface, Dick reaches into his mind and starts to bargain. 

Maybe there was a hallucinogen mixed in with the sedative, something that made him see and feel the things he saw and felt.

_Confusion. Fear. Liquid pouring down his throat, into his eyes. Stinging. Boiling. Anger. Rage. A blinding pain in his neck—so much pain—can’t even scream—_

It can’t be real. Dick refuses to believe that such a man, a _murderer,_ could be his… 

A sickness wallows in his belly. _Hell._ He can’t even think it. 

Though his eyes are closed, he can hear the man swearing. There’s a crash—another—and a series of dull sounds Dick recognizes all too well. A fist against the wall. Over and over, until Dick can’t help but picture broken, bloodied knuckles. And then there is laughter. _Laughter._

The sickness intensifies. A crazed murderer, then. 

_Not real,_ Dick thinks, as much as his leaden mind will let him think. There was something in the sedative. Chemo _did_ something to his mind, warped him like glass under fire. People like him weren’t fated to be with people like that. There was no way, no way—

_Bruce. Dent. Babs. Kori. Mirage. Slade. Blockbuster. Catalina. Blüdhaven. Blüdhaven. Blüdhaven._

He was supposed to be a good partner. A loyal boyfriend. A hero. He was supposed to save his city, and when he didn’t, he should have at least died trying. He couldn’t even _die_ right. 

Maybe he does deserve this. 

The thought is a bitterness in his chest, nausea in his gut. Dick lies still for a moment, feeling the unforgiving surface of the floor push against his cheekbones. The stone is so cold it almost feels wet. His left leg is bent beneath him at an odd angle, but he can’t work up the energy to care. 

“I know you’re awake,” a man says, and Dick’s muscles lock tight. 

_You lost track of your surroundings. Stupid fucking hero._

The man continues. “C’mon, little birdie. No point in pretending.” His voice is ripe with a bitter humor: _what a way to get the party started, huh?_

Dick waits half a moment, then opens his eyes. Breathes. 

The Red Hood is sitting against the wall in front of him, wearing the same outfit as before. Red helmet, leather jacket, heavy boots. Dick does not miss the fact that his hands are gloved. They weren’t before, when Dick felt the man’s fist meet his jaw. When he felt so much more than that. 

Sluggishly, deliberately, Dick pushes himself into a sitting position. 

“That’s it,” Hood says. “That’s it. Nice and slow.”

His movements are rough, slowed by his bound arms and the echo of drugs in his system. Once upright, Dick gives an experimental tug against the cuffs. The chain holds strong. 

“Yeah. You’re not going anywhere.”

Dick grits his teeth but says nothing. There is nothing to say. 

_Blüdhaven is gone. Slade got away. Babs hates you. Kori hates you. You let Blockbuster die. You’re a bad person, Dick Grayson._

He deserves this. 

Hood flexes his fingers, watching them curl and uncurl. His forefinger won’t straighten all the way; his pinky is trembling. “What?” he asks. “No questions? Heard you were a motormouth, Birdie.” 

The words leave him before he can stop himself. “Are they alive?”

“Who?”

“Those people.”

A laugh. “You don’t trust me?”

Dick tugs on the chain until he hears the metal links rattle against one another. “You made a promise,” he replies. 

“I did. And I kept it.” Hood cocks his head to one side. “So this is Blüdhaven’s finest, huh? Keep up the good work.”

Guilt bursts like a thunderhead inside him. “Fuck you,” Dick hisses. 

“Tsk tsk. I would have thought the B-man taught you to use your manners. Guess he really is a shit father.” 

_Father._ Something about the way he said it is disarming: too bitter, too _knowing._ For a moment Dick is still. Then the realization hits him with such a force he can hardly speak. 

“What did you see?” he asks, or tries to ask. The words calcify in his throat, refusing to pass his lips. He tries again. “What did you see?” 

Hood stiffens, then pretends he did not. Without a word he climbs to his feet and walks over to a nearby table, picking a knife from a pile of weaponry. His back is to Dick. “I didn’t see anything,” he mutters. 

But Dick knows better than to hope. “You’re lying.”

“About what?” Hood looks over at him. Though his eyes are covered by the helmet, Dick can feel them fixed on his own. Something like fury fills the air, thick and hot. “About what, Birdie?” 

Dick feels his jaw twitch. He won’t say it. He can’t. If the words were difficult before, they are impossible now. 

“Yeah,” Hood says. “That’s what I thought.” 

Again Dick finds himself tugging on the cuffs, disguising the action as an attempt to stand. The metal bites into his skin, unforgiving. No way out. 

“What do you want?” he asks at last.

Hood holds the knife up to a dim light bulb, watching the blade reflect the light onto the walls, into Dick’s eyes. “You’re a smart guy. Figure it out.”

“You didn’t take my mask off.”

“Maybe I didn’t need to.”

Dick’s lip curls in defiance and frustration. “If you’re going to kill me, get it over with.”

“I don’t want you,” Hood replies. He speaks like he’s rehearsing a line. Terse. Unsure. 

“Then you’re in luck. I don’t want you either.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

 _Neither of us do._ Swallowing, Dick works studiously to keep his eyes off his cuffed hands. “That’s true,” he says. “You do know you’re free to let me go any time, right?”

Hood is quiet as he sets the knife back on the table and picks up a pipe. The metal is hard and rusted, clearly heavy, clearly iron. Dick can almost feel the heavy blows sinking into his skin. Or maybe that’s just his broken body telling him that it’s time. You’ve fucked up enough. Just die already.

No. He can’t die. Because if he’s gone, then Blüdhaven will be alone. If he dies, then he takes everyone he could have saved with him. Dick Grayson deserves this. They do not. 

Dick’s eyes follow the line from his shackles to the wall. The chain is thick, at least twenty pounds, but the bolt in the wall—

“When do you think he’ll come for you?” Hood asks. “Before or after I mess up that pretty face?”

“Who’s coming for me?” 

He doesn’t seem to be listening. “Maybe it will be different with you,” Hood continues, walking closer. “You’re the good one. The golden son.”

Dick glances at the pipe. Blood has dried along the head, the outer edge. He shudders to think of how it got there. “Is that what you saw?” he asks. 

“I didn’t see anything.” 

“So I imagined it. I didn’t feel the things I felt.”

Hood pauses, then nods. “Yeah,” he replies, and brings the pipe down on Dick’s knee.

The pain is an explosion. Bright white. Dick grits his teeth as he stumbles back into the wall, struggling to keep the weight off his throbbing leg. _Give up,_ he thinks, as a second blow knocks up upside the chin. His mouth fills with blood. Just let go. Die already.

 _Don’t die. You can’t die._

The third blow catches him in the ribs. Bruises a couple. Dick rolls with it, ignoring the agony traveling across his midsection. As he spits blood to the floor, he chokes out, “What did you see?”

“Nothing!” Hood snarls. The next swing misses, chips the cement wall. “I saw _nothing._ You and I—” A flash of metal, and lightning bursts in Dick’s vision. “—We’re _nothing_ alike.”

Another swing. Another miss. The bolt trembles in the wall.

_He’s worse when he’s angry._

“You know that’s not true,” Dick says. He can hardly stand anymore; the room is spinning around him. Any second now he’s going to fall apart. “You know what we are.”

The pipe hits the wall so hard it almost flies from Hood’s grasp _“Stop it!”_

“Soulmates. We’re soul—” 

A glove fist smashes into Dick’s face. There’s a sharp _crack_ , and blood pours from his nose. 

“Don’t say that!” Hood screams. _“Don’t say that!”_

Dick doesn’t wait any longer. Bracing his good leg against the wall, he wraps his hands around the chain and channels all of his power into launching himself toward Hood. There is a split second where the chain is yanking him back— _please,_ he thinks—and then the pressure is gone and he is driving his shoulder into the other man’s stomach. 

They tumble to the floor. The red helmet smacks against the floor; Dick feels the material on his palms tearing open. Everything in him is on fire.

No time to waste. 

He’s on top of Hood in an instant, trying to trap him to the ground. But Hood is bigger and heavier, and he’s pushing and growling, and there’s no way Dick can hold him for long, not handcuffed and bleeding. And the man is pushing against him, and the sleeves of his jacket are slipping down his forearms, and Dick tries to shove them away, and—

_Heartbreak, and anger. So intense that there is little of him left. He is falling through dirt, burning, beaten. Confusion. Where is Bruce? Where is Batman? I’m Robin and being Robin gives me magic…_

Dick falls, his pulse pounding in his ears. The man in front of him is silent and still as stone. Alive.

“Jason?” Dick whispers. 

***

His helmet is sitting on the table. No point in wearing it anymore. Jason watches it until the red fills his vision, until eyes seem to watch him back. A shiver runs down his arms. 

He’s been all-too aware of his skin the last few hours. Where it’s exposed to the cold air of the bunker. Where it’s scarred. Where it’s burned. Where the crowbar tore it open, where Bruce’s fists left it bruised, where Dick’s touch sent him spiraling into a different world. 

This is fucking bullshit. 

Jason huffs as he wraps a bandage over his swollen knuckles, tighter and tighter until the pain takes over. 

“This isn’t happening,” Dick says quietly. He speaks like he’s still rolling the thought around his mouth, trying to piece together a reason when there is none to be found. 

Flexing his hand, Jason turns to look at the man through the doorway. A padlock kept him secured to one of the thick pipes beneath the bathroom sink, giving him enough room to move but not enough room to _move._ Mask off. Hands bound behind his back this time. Blood drying in streaks along the lower half of his face. Bleeding from the head, where Jason stunned him with the pipe. No broken bones, not yet. 

Fucking eye bolt. He should have known it wouldn’t hold. 

_Stupid. So fucking stupid._

At least it was easy, knocking him out again. The truth seemed to stun Dick. Left him so breathless and weak that Jason almost laughed. Of course: give a Bat a beating and they’ll walk it off. Give a Bat a feeling, on the other hand… 

“You’re dead,” Dick continued. The dried blood on his face cracked as he spoke, flaking off to reveal deep olive skin. “This can’t be real. You’re dead.” 

Jason snorted. “Do I look dead?” 

“You drugged me.”

“Not this time, Goldie.” 

Dick shakes his head furiously. Blood spills from his hairline, dripping down his neck. “No. No. I saw your grave. The death certificate.” 

_Clawing through dirt. Bleeding. Choking. Screaming._

“Shut up,” Jason mumbles. 

He doesn’t. “I’ve touched you,” Dick says. “I’ve touched you. We never—not before—there was nothing.”

“Shut up.” 

“What _happened_ to you?” 

Anger rears its ugly head. Jason flies to his feet, slamming his hands against the table. His neck stings more than his fingers. “Shut up! Shut up! _Shut up!”_ he screams. 

“I—”

“You never cared about me. Bruce never cared about me. About _any_ of us!” He grabs the radio from the table and squeezes until he sees blood pushing through the bandage over his knuckles. “How long do you think Bruce will wait before replacing you, huh? How long did he wait the first time?”

The walls of the bunker catch his words and throw them back at him. Sick. It’s _sick._ And when they’re finally gone, Jason’s chest is heaving, and Dick is staring at him with fire in his eyes. 

“Go to hell,” Dick hisses.

Jason laughs quietly, bitterly. “I’ve been. It didn’t take.” 

“You’re not Jason Todd. Not the one I knew.”

“Well maybe that explains it,” Jason replies, wiggling his fingers. “How about I punch you again and you show me what you were doing when I died?” He laughs again. He can’t stop. “Oh right! You were fucking around on some alien planet!”

Dick lunges, only to be yanked back by the chain. “Don’t you _dare_ blame me!” 

“Did I say I was blaming you?” 

“It was a _job,_ Jason,” Dick says, working the name like gristle in his mouth. Unfamiliar. Frustrated. A far cry from how it used to be, all those years ago. 

_You did good, Little Wing._

Jason feeks his throat constrict. None of that matters. That was a different time, a different life. He needs to _get the fuck over it._

The radio clatters to the table. As he strides toward Dick Jason pulls the knife from his belt, watches the serrated edge catch the light. Sharp enough to carve flesh like butter. 

Dick is pretending not to look at the blade. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” he says softly. His face is wrought with pain and exhaustion. No fight left in his limbs. “Really. I am.”

_Get the fuck over it._

Crouching to the ground, Jason places the point of the knife beneath Dick’s chin. A gentle pressure. Their eyes lock onto each other. “The truth is, I don’t give a shit about you, Pretty Bird," Jason says. “Let’s just hope _he_ does.”

Dick’s eyes are so blue it _hurts._ He doesn’t flinch when the blade presses harder against his skin, threatening to pierce the underside of his jaw. “What happened to you, Jason?” he asks. 

“I died.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jason feels his jaw clench. Slowly, he lowers the knife and stands. “Maybe this is who I always was, Dickiebird,” he says. “You and the old man were just too good to see it.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Dick says.

“Does it make you feel better, thinking that?” 

No response. 

Jason huffs and walks over to the table, rubbing the wound on his neck. “Figured,” he mumbles. “Perfect Nightwing wants a perfect fucking _soul—”_

Fuck. _Fuck._

He rests his weight against a column, trying to quell the urge to break himself open on the wall, the floor, the shitty mirror in the shitty bathroom. Dick is staring at him. Jason can feel his eyes—those _eyes—_ boring into the back of his head. 

“I cried for you,” Dick says softly. “Finding out you were gone…that was one of the worst moments of my life.” 

Jason straightens. Breathes. “Shut up,” he says quietly.

“I fell apart. We all did.” 

“Save your sob story for someone who cares.”

“If I had known—”

A high-pitched ringing assaults his eardrums, drowning out Dick’s voice. “Stop,” Jason says, gripping the sides of his head. _Go away, go away, go away…_

“—not just another statistic—”

_Go away, go away, go away…_

“—and Bruce—”

Jason explodes. _“Bruce_ chose that _madman_ over _me!”_ he cries, whipping around to face Dick. “He never wanted me! You never wanted me! No one ever has!”

He’s crying again. Hot tears push against his eyelids, spilling down the curve of his cheeks. Salty. Stinging. 

_God damn it._

Dick’s mouth parts in surprise. “That’s not true.”

“This—” He motions between them, his laughter so sour he can taste it. “—This is a fucking joke.”

Silence falls over the bunker. Jason turns away to wipe his face on his sleeve, cursing himself. _Too dumb to live. Too dumb to stay dead. Utterly worthless._

No wonder no one wants him. 

“Where are you going?” Dick asks him, as he lowers the helmet over his head. 

The locking mechanism tightens with a hiss. Jason shoves his guns in their holsters, looking studiously away from the man on the bathroom floor. Gloves. Knives. “Let’s see how long it takes for daddy to realize you’re missing,” he says. “Watch the house while I’m gone, ‘kay?” 

“Jason—”

“Bye, _Dick,”_ he snaps, and does not look back. 

It’s six long hours before he returns to the bunker. Blowing up what’s left of Black Mask’s shit. Shooting a rapist in the groin, letting him bleed out all over East End. Drinking on a fire escape. Watching the Bat Signal hover over the Diamond District. Smashing the bottle into confetti. 

He’s not drunk, but his mind is tumbling when he enters the code to the bunker. The air around him is freezing. _I can’t do this,_ he thinks, pushing open the heavy concrete door. _I can’t do this, I can’t—_

Fuck.

Dick is propped against the wall of the bathroom, his head hanging limply against his chest. Not asleep. Sleep carries life in it: flushed skin, flickering lashes. Dick is pale and _heavy,_ like iron ore in water. 

Slowly, Jason unlocks his helmet and deposits it on a shelf. “I’m back,” he says, waiting for the other man to stir. There is no response. 

“Hey, Dickhead.”

Nothing.

“Dick.”

Nothing.

“Shit,” he mutters, marching over to the bathroom and turning on the faucet. He pretends his heart isn’t racing, pretends his breaths are steady and fulfilling. 

Dick can’t die. If he dies, the game is over. Everyone loses. It’s like the night in East End all over again. No happy ending. Jason beat his soulmate and let him bleed out, alone, on a bathroom floor. 

_Never wanted back then. Never wanted again._

Slipping a cup beneath the icy stream, he waits for it to fill before dumping it over Dick’s face. The water hits the tile, pink. A second, an eternity, and Dick’s eyes flutter open. 

The pressure lifts from Jason’s chest.

“Shit, Grayson,” he mutters, turning off the faucet with a flick of his hand. “I thought you were stronger than that.”

Slow, lagging blinks. “Jas’n?”

He sets the cup on the edge of the sink. “Shut up.”

Dick makes a noise like he doesn’t understand what Jason is saying. Water drips down his chin and falls to the floor. “S’cold,” he mumbles.

Jason’s tongue pauses against his teeth. _No shit it’s cold,_ he almost says, but then he sees Dick’s blue lips and thinks, _crap._ Dick’s not even shivering anymore. Shutdown mode. 

Jason runs his hands through his hair, resisting the urge to tear it out. _Think. Think._ The first step would be to get him off the icy tile, to get him out of the wet uniform—fucking _idiot,_ what was he thinking dousing him in water?—and into warmer clothes. Give him warm water. Blankets. But that would mean _touching_ him, _feeling_ and _seeing_ and being _felt_ and _seen._

 _You could just let him die,_ says the voice. 

Hypothermia is kinder than a crowbar. A sweet death, they call it. Drifting in-and-out of consciousness, losing a grasp of pain and reality. Too late, Bruce. You couldn’t save your soldier from the weather. 

“Fuck,” Jason says under his breath, fumbling with the keys on his person. “Fuck. Fuck.”

“What’re you doing?” Dick asks as Jason tugs on the chain— _don’t touch him, don’t touch him_ —and unlocks the cuffs. 

“Something stupid.”

“Oh.”

Jason doesn’t so much _help_ Dick as he _drags_ him. Hand around his wrist, careful not to touch the exposed skin of his palms, tugging him over the floor to the only non-metal, non-concrete surface in the bunker. A floor rug, hardly nicer than a yoga mat. 

He drops Dick on the rug unceremoniously, and dumps blankets on Dick with even less grace. There’s a spare set of clothes in one of his bags; he dumps those too. “Cover up,” he grunts, hating that he’s done this, hating that he’s still doing it. 

But he can’t stop.

***

Dick wakes up in Jason’s clothes, cuffed but not chained. His stomach twists with hunger; his body is littered with bruises and pains. 

For a moment he lies still—on some kind of mat, he figures—and searches his memory for a reason. 

Right. _Right._

“Oh good. You’re up,” says a voice. Jason. He’s sitting in a chair not far from Dick, arms crossed and jaw tight. So much bigger than Dick remembers. Almost a foot taller, at least eighty pounds heavier. His arms and face are scarred, and there’s a white streak of hair above his forehead, but those sea-green eyes are the same. 

Dick wonders how long he’s been sitting there, watching him. “You didn’t let me die,” he says factually. 

“You’re weaker than I’d thought you’d be.” 

“Were you waiting for me to wake up?”

“No.”

“What were you doing?” 

Jason’s jaw twitches. Muttering something beneath his breath, he folds into himself and runs his hands through his hair. Still muttering. Cursing, it seems like. Squeezing his eyes shut. 

Dick feels himself begin to splinter.

Jason releases a shaky breath. “You said you lost it,” he mutters, “when I died. Is that true?”

_Disbelief. Shock. Staring at the computer screen, searching, begging. Kori and Raven at his shoulders. “It isn’t a big deal, anyhow,” Danny said. “Happens all the time…”_

The guilt and shame still drags him down into the earth. Just like Kori. Just like Blockbuster. Just like Blüdhaven.

“Jesus.” Jason laughs, drawing Dick from his thoughts. “You can’t even lie about it, can you?” 

“It’s the truth,” Dick says.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Dick recognizes that tone of voice. He’s heard it in himself, a thousand times, when he feels the scorn of his former teammates, when he can hardly keep up his smile, when he swears that _I’m all good, I promise!_

Once again he thinks, _what happened to you? What happened to that wild grin?_

Huh. He supposes people could ask the same about him. Maybe that’s why things turned out the way they did. 

“I can show you,” Dick says quietly. 

A huff. 

“I can.”

Jason laughs again, scratching his neck. For the first time, Dick notices an ugly cut along the side, bright red and crossed with messy stitches. “And why would I want to do that? Just to get a taste of that _perfect_ life I never had?” 

“Perfect,” Dick repeats. _“Perfect?”_

“Yeah. You and your pretty little friends off playing _catch the bad guy_ while the rest of the world falls to real-life problems.” His gaze is sour. “You ever go hungry, Goldie? Ever suck a cock for half a sandwich and some pocket change?”

Dick’s stomach clenches. “Jason, I’m—”

“All while _you_ were eating off a silver platter. Going to parties. Being adored.” 

_God damn it._ Dick tries to climb to his feet, only for his legs to buckle underneath him. A deep pain spreads throughout his lower half. “If you don’t want to know, fine,” he snaps. “But don’t make up crap instead!” 

“So your life is shit too, huh?” 

_“Yes!”_

Jason opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it quickly. He glances at Dick’s legs, still shaking from the sudden motion, then starts scratching his neck again. “You’re _his_ favorite,” he says, after a moment. “You’ve always been his favorite.”

Dick rubs his shoulder, feels the deep ache of bruises. He thinks of that moment in the cave, all those moments in the cave, where a fist met his jaw, where words cut his skin. “I wouldn’t say that,” he mutters.

“Fuck.”

“I’m serious.”

Another pause. Jason’s whole body is locked tight, so tense his extremities begin to tremble. He looks as though he might throw up. Finally, he releases a rocky breath and stands. Pulling a handgun from its holster, he says, “Move, and I’ll put one in both your legs.”

Dick licks his chapped lips. What remains of his spirit is screaming at him to _overpower him and run,_ to _do it for Blüdhaven because every second you’re locked in here is another second the city is alone._ But he can’t. He won’t.

One of Jason’s gloves falls to the floor. “Head back,” he growls, and when Dick complies, wraps his bare hand around Dick’s throat.

Before his parents died, his dai told him how it worked. “It’s like sending a letter, chav,” she said. “Write down what you want, and send it out. A piece of cake.” 

Not so easy. Dick can only gather fragments, a few broken pieces: _Hand on Danny’s neck. Screaming, sobbing—No, no, no—I’m really sorry, Bruce—A fist across his jaw—pain—Alone in the darkness of the cave—Dead—Dying—Clawing his way through dirt—_

Not his thoughts. Jason’s. 

_Anger. Sorrow.Green, green, green. A kiss that shouldn’t have been. Burning jacket. Broken nose. You’re going to have to shoot me. Right in my face. White-hot pain. Blood pouring down his neck. I’m going to die. I’m going to die—_

The world slams back into him. Dick blinks, breathless, as Jason stumbles away. The wound on his neck is an angry red. 

_Bruce._

Jason steadies himself on the metal chair, breathing hard. “You…” he gasps. “He _hit_ you. Son of a bitch.”

Dick can’t say anything. The pain of the batarang piercing his neck is still too fresh in his memory, as is the shock and anguish that followed. _Tried to kill me—Tried to kill me—Chose_ him _over me…_

“God, that’s rich.” Jason exhales sharply. “Can’t _wait_ to throw that at him.”

Swallowing, Dick repeats what he’s been telling himself for years. “It wasn’t—he was grieving, I blamed him for—”

“No. You don’t give him an out. Don’t you dare.”

“It’s true.”

“Fuck, Goldie.” Jason falls into the chair, shaking his head. “You really are a piece of work. Maybe we do deserve each other.”

“Maybe,” Dick says quietly. 

A moment passes. The air falls quiet, disturbed by only their breath. Jason is scratching his neck again—no, not scratching. Tugging at the stitches. Not enough to pull them out, but just enough to disturb them. 

Then he stands, suddenly, and walks over to a shelf. He grabs some things Dick cannot see, then returns and drops them at Dick’s feet. 

Water, and a protein bar. 

“Don’t read into it,” Jason says. “I need you alive.”

Dick eyes the bottle. He doesn’t know what time it is—no clock, no windows—but he figures it’s been at least a day since he’s eaten, and twelve hours since he last lapped water from the bathroom sink. “Am I supposed to thank you?” he asks. 

Jason pauses, then says, “I have cameras.” He points to the cuffs around Dick’s wrists. “Touch anything, and get shocked.” 

“You going somewhere?”

“I’ve got shit to do. It’s a crapsack world out there.”

Dick chews the inside of his cheek. “How’s Blüdhaven?”

“It’s Blüdhaven.”

 _All alone._ “Are you going to let me go?” Dick asks quietly, thinking of his city. His failure. 

Jason pauses, one hand hovering over the top of the helmet. “That’s not up to me,” he replies. He does not say anything else.

***

Two days, Jason told himself. 

Let Dick have two days to recover. Then it’ll hurt all the more when Jason takes a knife to him. Or a blowtorch. Iron? Pliers? Fuck. _Fuck._

After three days, Jason finds himself staring at Dick. The bruises on his face and neck are beginning to fade, as are the visible ones on his arms. He imagines the ones beneath his clothes look much the same. Violet and yellow over a toned chest, down the ridges of his abdomen, dipping toward the curve of his thighs. 

_God damn it,_ he thinks. This is one of _them._ This is someone you’re supposed to _hate._

And yet, he remembers what he saw in Dick’s mind. Feeling his hands—well, they were Dick’s hands, but in the midst of it all they were _his_ hands too—hoisting that bratty kid up, slamming him against the computer. His heart breaking. His throat raw from screaming. There was no apathy there, no amusement, no schadenfreude, nothing of that kind. What Jason felt in Dick was _sorrow._

“Did you tell him yet?” Dick asks suddenly. 

Jason grunts and turns back to the array of weapons in front of him. _Tire iron? Scalpel? Hammer?_ He pictures himself swinging the pipe into Dick’s ribs, smelling blood, hearing the sick thud and the cry of pain that tore from Dick’s lungs. 

“You didn’t,” Dick continues. Not a question. “Did you.”

 _Knife?_ “Maybe I want to see how long it takes,” he mutters. He picks up a tire iron, tests the balance in his hand, and sets it down. 

They say that hurting your _soulmate_ is like chipping away at your core. Of course, Jason’s never believed any of that shit. Still doesn’t. Beating Dick did jack squat. He’s fine. He’s _fine._

“Not gonna beat me?” Dick asks. 

“You’re not worth the energy.” 

“Then let me go.”

“No.”

“Little Wing.”

Jason’s lip curls in anger. “Don’t call me that.”

“I need to help them.”

“More like you need to be a martyr.”

“Well at least one of us is still good.” 

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah?” Dick laughs. “Fuck you too.”

Jason sighs deeply. He pictures Bruce’s face—that cold, stern face—and aches to break it. Make it _hurt._

Dick stares at him with fury in his eyes. “This isn’t going to change things.”

“I’m not trying to change things,” Jason snaps. Heat billows inside him, clawing its way up his throat. “I’m trying to make them better. Make _him_ see all the damage his _stupid fucking rule_ has done to this world!” 

“You can’t—”

He drives his fist into the wall, feels the skin splinter and scream. “How many people did the Joker kill after me, huh? How many innocents? _Kids?_ All because Bruce couldn’t! Put! A bullet! In! His! _Head!”_ he cries, punctuating each word with another punch. In front of him the wall is spattered with red, a macabre painting. His knuckles sting. 

Letting out a long, heavy breath, Jason runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t care about the blood dripping onto his scalp. “I forgave him, you know,” he says bitterly. “For not saving me. Right before he saved that psycho freak. Guess he’d rather lose me than his little _playmate.”_

God damn it. Crying again. He wipes his face on his sleeve, wishing for something he can’t quite place. 

“Your hand,” Dick says.

“What’s a little pain when you’re dead?”

“Jesus Christ, Jason.”

His legs don’t want to work anymore. Jason sits down on the floor, feeling the cold of the concrete seeping into his legs. At least something’s cold. He’s _burning._ Eyes: burning. Skin: burning. Lungs: burning. Like being in the Pit all over again.

The cuffs clink against each other as Dick sighs. It’s obvious that he’s turning something over in his mind, and Jason has the briefest urge to reach out and brush his fingers against Dick’s cheek, to feel what he is feeling. 

_Shit._

Jason tears his eyes away from the other man’s skin. “Let me guess,” he mutters. “I don’t have to do this. This isn’t the real me. There’s good in everyone. Blah, blah blah.”

The expression on Dick’s face softens. “We’re pretty fucked up,” he says.

Jason watches beads of blood push through the skin of his knuckles and roll between his fingers. “I thought that I’d be the end of it. Thought that I would be the last one _he_ took from the world.” He chuckles softly into the crook of his arm. “But I guess I was wrong. One death is just too much for you fucking _Bats.”_

Dick sits back, wraps his cuffed hands over his knees. “You leave a piece of you on the other side.”

“Please. You don’t know a thing about it, Birdie.”

“That’s not true. I—” He stops suddenly, biting his lip. 

There is a moment of silence as Jason waits for him to continue. When Dick does not, he asks, “You what?”

A shaky breath. “I killed him,” 

“What?” 

“I killed him. He said your name, and I just… I couldn’t stop. It was like—Here.” Dick holds out his hands, his fingers stretching toward Jason. “Please. I don’t want to say it. Don’t make me say it.”

Jason watches his face. _A trick,_ his mind tells him. But Dick’s gaze is gentle, his lips red and parted, the angles of his face less sharp in the shadows of the bunker. Again he burns to run his hands over the fresh scruff on the other man’s jaw, to feel how he’s grown from the teen Jason once knew to the young man before him now. His fucking _soulmate._

Slowly, he reaches out and cups his palm over Dick’s hand. 

_Cold tile floor. Hunger. Freezing. Sad young man. Such a sad young man—_

_Rage. Despair. All the deaths. All the pain. His name was Jason, right? Bones crunching beneath his fist. Not enough. Never enough._

_Sad young man. Such a sad young man—_

Jason yanks his hand away. His heart drums in his chest, drawing him toward Dick even as his mind screams at him to get away. 

“You…” he stammers.

Dick draws his limbs into his chest, shaking his head. “Yeah. Me.”

Through the chaos in his head, Jason thinks, _Bruce saved him. Dick killed him, and Bruce saved him._ And he wants to be angry, he aches and itches and _needs_ to feel fury cloud his mind with green smoke, but he can’t be. Not now. The only thing he feels is Dick’s thoughts swimming in his brain. The only thing he sees is Dick. 

“I didn’t forget you,” Dick says. His voice is hardly over a whisper. “More than anything, I wanted…I don’t know. You were hardly a teenager. And I couldn’t stop thinking, _It isn’t fair._ You deserved so much better than the life you got.” Bright blue eyes, damp and glittering, lock onto Jason. “You still deserve more, you know.”

Again Jason thinks of the pipe in his hand, the rush of wind over his arm as he swung. Hit. _Bruised._ Breaking the skin of a person who had nothing to do with his death. Who had fought for him even after he was gone. His _soulmate._

His stomach clenches. 

“I don’t know,” Jason mutters. “I don’t think I deserve anything.”

***

It’s no longer difficult to fall asleep. Maybe it’s because he’s exhausted, worn thin thinking about Blüdhaven, Bruce, Slade, Tim, Blockbuster, Babs, Mirage, Catalina, Jason. Maybe it’s because Jason loosened the cuffs— _Try anything and I’ll break your teeth,_ he said, though he didn’t mean it—or maybe it’s because Dick is no longer wrought with aches and throbbing muscles. Maybe it’s because Jason brought him fresh clothes. Maybe it’s because Jason has started sleeping in the bunker too. 

Jason takes the opposite corner, sleeping on a mat with only a thin blanket over him. He sleeps with his back to Dick. Or at least, he pretends to. 

Sometimes, Dick watches him. Sometimes he studies the curve of his body beneath the blanket, the dip of his waist, the swell of his shoulders. Sometimes he listens to Jason’s ragged breaths. Sometimes he imagines how things would have been different, if he had lived and they had grown into themselves side-by-side. And then Dick remembers that he’s trapped in the bunker while the world outside falls apart, and he has to tear his thoughts away from hopes and _what ifs._

There aren’t any chains. Haven’t been for a while now. It would be easy for Dick to wait for Jason’s body to relax, for his breaths to even out, then slip over and neutralize him. Bind his limbs together. Get him to give up the key to the handcuffs and the code to the door. Dick would be free.

_And Jason would be alone._

Dick never leaves his spot on the floor. 

He’s been out for a few hours when a strangled cry rips him from sleep. Instinctively Dick flies up fast as he can with bound hands, his head whipping from side to side to find the source of the noise. 

Jason. 

His eyes are closed but his hands are moving, twitching and straining against something that isn’t there. And he’s choking now. Babbling. The same word, over and over and over. 

_“No,”_ he whimpers. _“No no no no no.”_

“Jason,” Dick hisses.

It does little. Jason’s legs kick the air; his arms start thrashing against his invisible attacker. 

A little louder: “Jason. You’re dreaming.”

_“No. Please. No. No!”_

Dick swallows, his body clenching at the sound of Jason’s whispers, his rapid breathing. Not stopping. Jason’s words are lost in the intensity of his screams, the violent movements of his body. It’s one, long desperation.

Without thinking Dick runs toward Jason, nearly tripping over a bag in the dark shadows of the bunker. “Jason,” he says, pressing his hands into Jason’s side, shaking him. “Jason, wake up! _Wake up!”_

Nothing. 

Gritting his teeth, Dick squeezes his eyes shut and thinks. Night terrors go away. It should go away. But the thought of leaving Jason here, terrified inside his own head, makes Dick want to break apart. _He’s suffering,_ he thinks. _He’s suffering and I can’t help him._

Or maybe he can. 

When he touches Jason’s cheek, Dick thinks, _it’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s—_

_Bones breaking. All alone. Help me. Pain. Pain. Please just let me die already—_

Jason’s face is hot. His sweat is cold. 

_I want to die. Biting through his tongue. I wish I were dead. Broken ankle. Why isn’t anyone coming to save me?_

It’s as if he’s gathering the images, the _fear,_ from Jason’s body. Reaching inside him, grabbing hold of the ugly strain, letting it sink into his skin and settle in his mind. Like drawing poison from a wound.

_Pain. Pain. Pain._

_Poison._

“Dick?” 

He blinks, letting reality wash through him. His heart is a drum in his throat. In front of him, Jason’s eyes are open and unfocused, almost glowing in the darkness. The crest of his cheeks are stained with tears. 

Dick pulls his hands back. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t chase Jason’s thoughts from his head. “You were screaming,” he says, dumbly. 

Jason sits up, digs his fist into his eyes. “Was I?” he mutters, voice hoarse. Then he pauses and stares at Dick. “What did you do to me?”

“Woke you up.”

“You didn’t hurt me.”

A part of Dick splinters. “Why would I hurt you?” 

“To get out.”

“Do you really think I would do that?”

Jason pulls his lips tight and stares at the shadows on the wall. “Maybe,” he mutters. “No. I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

“You’re too close,” Jason says suddenly. “Stand back.”

Dick doesn’t move. He recognizes that tone of voice, the sudden anger that doesn’t quite mask the pain. It’s a mechanism Dick’s used a hundred times, a thousand times, whenever someone almost discovers how close he is to falling apart. 

They really do deserve each other, don’t they?

“Or what?” Dick asks. “What if I don’t stand back?”

Jason opens his mouth to speak then closes it. A moment passes. Another. Finally, he says, “I’ll make you stand back.”

“How?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Are you going to beat me again?” 

No response.

Dick lets his weight pull him into a sitting position. He’s only a foot from Jason, so close he can feel the heat still radiating from his body, make out the dark circles beneath his eyes. “I’m not afraid of you,” he says softly. 

“I know,” Jason replies. He eyes Dick’s hands, then looks away. “What did you see? When you…touched me.”

_Bones breaking. All alone. Help me. Pain. Pain._

Dick licks his lips. “You were, um…”

“Dying.”

“I think so.”

“Thank you.” The words are so small Dick can hardly catch them. Just the barest hint of language, not even a whisper. 

He doesn’t know how to respond. So he doesn’t. He merely sits on the cold, hard floor, watching Jason watching shadows. Or not watching shadows. There’s a far-off look in his eyes, making it obvious that he isn’t seeing what is in front of him. 

_It’s okay,_ Dick wants to say. _I know. I know._

Then Jason takes a deep breath. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says.

“What?”

“You’re not poison.”

Dick stiffens. The night on the rooftop is the briefest flash in his memory— _numb, poison—_ and that millisecond is enough to make his limbs tense, his head throb. “You saw that?” he asks softly. 

“I felt something.” Jason scratches the wound on his neck. There’s a new bruise along his jaw, and another on the back of his forearm. “You don’t have to tell me. I know. And I know it wasn’t your fault.”

Dick doesn’t say anything. The silence hangs heavy around them, so thick he’s choking on it. He thinks about the sound of a gunshot, about Catalina’s touch, about not being able to move or speak or think. And he knows—he _knows—_ it’s not his fault, that he needs to talk about it to move on, but he can’t. Because it _was_ his fault. He failed to see through her lies. Failed to save Blockbuster. Failed to stop her. He _failed._

And now Jason knows, too. 

_This is why you didn’t want a soulmate,_ says the voice in his head. _They know things. You can’t hide from them._

“I’m sorry,” Jason says. 

It takes a moment for Dick to register the words. When he does, it is as if everything in him has halted. “You’re sorry.”

“For everything. I’m sorry.” Without betraying anything, Jason falls back on the mat and turns away from Dick. “I’m fucked up,” he mutters. 

“Jay—”

“You’re too close to me.”

Slowly, Dick climbs to his feet, his eyes never leaving the figure in front of him. _We’re both fucked up,_ he thinks. Teetering at the edge of abyss, never quite falling in, never quite finding their balance. 

Waiting to fall. 

Waiting to be okay. 

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting. 

***

Leaning over the edge of the fire escape, Jason stares at the radio in his hands. Without his helmet on, the wind is free to tousle his hair, sting his cheeks red. It’s wet and cold and tastes like salt, not at all like the colors of the Gotham sunset. 

_A nice night,_ he thinks bitterly, running his gloved fingers over the buttons of the radio. And it is: the sky is red and orange and purple, cut by pink clouds and the varied faces of skyscrapers. Years ago, he used to love nights like these. Beautiful sunsets make for beautiful nights. Swinging from building to building, laughing as Bruce—

His hands tighten. 

It’s been over a week since he brought Dick into the bunker. Since he _touched_ him. The whole thing still feels impossible, like a fever dream, made even more so by the things he’s seen in Dick’s head. The things he’s felt. 

_Failure. I’m a failure. Babs. Kory. Don’t touch me. Poison. I deserve this. I have to save them. Save him. I’m not afraid of you._

Dick Grayson. The first Robin. Nightwing. The most beautiful thing Jason had ever seen, the one person he wanted to be more than anything. The one person he wanted more than anything. His captive. His soulmate. 

It can’t be right. None of it. Through all the pain, all the guilt, all the anger, Dick is still _Dick._ Still a hero. And he doesn’t deserve to be tied to someone like _him._

Jason has never had any doubts about what he is. He’s a street rat. A consolation prize. A second-rate soldier and a wayward son. A killer. A crimelord. The Red Hood. 

Fate is fucked up. 

Jason casts his eyes to the sky, to the space between buildings. There’s so much of Gotham. Endless rows of buildings, stretching left and right and receding into the horizon. Half of it scarred and wanting. More than half. Ravaged on one end by the corrupt freaks Bruce Wayne runs with; ravaged on the other by the crazy freaks Batman can’t put down. 

_Never enough._

Bruce hasn’t even noticed. That’s the worst part of it: Dick goes missing, and Bruce is too caught up in his fucking fantasies to notice. What would it take? The Nightwing suit, torn and bloodied, waving like a flag from the bat signal? His head on a pike in the cave? 

_Do it,_ the voice commands. _Tell your men. Let him know._

It would be easy. All he has to do is press the button. Press the button, and let Bruce come to him. Press the button, and show him just how fucked up his morals are. 

“Fuck,” Jason mutters. It’s his own damn fault. He let Dick get under his skin. Let Dick do all his stupid _hero shit_ and make it hard to want to hurt him. It was supposed to be easy. _It was supposed to be easy!_

With a cry of frustration, he kicks the edge of the fire escape and feels the metal rattle and shake down to the ground. He wants to do more. Wants to feel something tear him open until he’s striped red and _alive._ Punch the wall. Jump from the fire escape. Find some big, ugly rogue and let them beat him to a pulp. Anything that will keep him from thinking of Bruce, or himself, or Dick.

Dick.

He can still picture the other man’s face, washed in blue shadow, too close to his own. How he ached to brush his fingers over his jaw. Kiss the space between his brow and temple. Anything to feel the smallest fragment of kindness again. 

_It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. Drawing poison. Poison. Numb. Poison. Don’t touch me. It’s okay._

_Why would I hurt you?_ Dick had asked. 

_Because I’m hurting you,_ Jason thinks, breathing through the heat in his chest. It’s a stupid thought, really—of _course_ he’s hurting him, he beat him with a pipe and let him freeze and trapped him in a bunker. But it rings differently now, settling inside him like a sickness. _I’m hurting Dick Grayson_ is more than just a fact. It’s a cruelty. 

Keeping him locked up away from the world, blaming him, telling him that Bruce doesn’t love him, these things aren’t hurting Bruce. They’re hurting _Dick._

 _No,_ he tries to tell himself. _You’re past this. Sometimes people get caught in the crossfire. It’s part of the job._

The thought feels like a lie.

Jason clenches his fists, feels his torn knuckles strain with the movement. All he has to do is press the button. Press the button. _Press the fucking button!_

But he can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t he _can’t._

“God _damn_ it!” he cries, hurling the radio into the brick wall behind him. It shatters on impact, exploding into bits of plastic that tumble toward the alleway below. His mind is swimming through it all— _Dick Bruce plan touch soulmates memory poison Dick Dick Dick—_ and his limbs are shaking as he lurches down the stairs. 

Got to get back. Don’t think. Don’t you dare think. 

When he finally makes it back to the bunker, his fingers are almost too numb to work the code. It takes all his energy to push the door open, to burst through the thin opening, like water through the floodgates. Dick stands when he sees him, face contorted in surprise or maybe fear.

 _Fear,_ Jason thinks. Nausea rises in his throat. 

“Jason?”

“Don’t talk,” he growls, then wishes he hadn’t. “Hold out your hands.”

“What?” 

He pulls the keys from his belt and starts looking for the right one. Small. Silver. Bloodstained. _Dick’s blood. Dick’s blood, because you hit him. Hurt him._

“What are you doing?” Dick asks. His eyes flicker toward the door, still open, and the dimly-lit hallway on the other side. 

For a second Jason pauses, wondering if Dick will make a run for it, before wishing that he would. At least then he’d be right about something. They never did care about him. This—all of this—was just Dick’s ploy to let him go. 

But no. Of course there was no ploy, because Dick, for all his guilt and trauma and fury, is the most selfless, kind, and loving person Jason has ever met. 

And Jason Todd is anything but that. 

“Hands out,” he says again, softer this time. His hands find the right key, feel the hard surface beneath the fabric of his gloves. 

Dick doesn’t move, not right away. “Jason,” he says. “What is this?” 

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” 

Of course he doesn’t. Because there’s no way in hell that Jason Todd would ever let someone go, soulmate or not. What does Dick think he’s going to do? Beat him again? Drag him in front of Bruce and make the old man say what they already know? 

It’s worse now, the nausea. His tongue quivers. He can hardly see straight, think straight. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “Fuck. I’m—I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you. God. I’m so fucking sorry.” 

“Jason—”

“You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve any of that. And it’s not your fault—none of it—and I’m just so fucked up, and I— _please,_ Dick.” 

“Please what?” 

_Please hold out your hands. Please don’t make this harder than it has to be. Please leave quickly. Please don’t hate me. Please don’t leave._

Jason holds out the key and nods at the handcuffs. If he speaks, he’ll shatter. It’s easier just to stay silent and pretend. 

Slowly, Dick holds out his hands. He doesn’t flinch when Jason pulls them toward him, fumbles with the key until the lock clicks open. The handcuffs clatter to the floor. 

Neither of them move. 

Jason fights the urge to scream. _Go,_ he pleads. _Go. Just go. Don’t say anything. Go._

“Why?” Dick asks.

Of all the fucking questions. “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles. 

Dick’s brow furrows. “It does.”

“Get out.”

“Jason—”

“I said, _get out.”_ He points toward the door, looking anywhere but into Dick’s face. “Do you want to leave or not? Because now’s your chance, Goldie.” 

No movement. God damn it. God _damn it._

Jason marches over to a shelf, grabs the closest object he can find. A tire iron. “I can beat you if you want,” he says. His voice is already broken. “Would that make it easier? Would it?” 

Dick takes one step forward, then another. “You’re not gonna do that,” he says. 

No, he’s not. Jason sets down the tire iron and stares at the floor, holding onto the shelf to keep from falling. “Go save your city, Dickiebird,” he mutters.

Dick walks closer. His footsteps are soft, tentative, as if approaching a scared kitten, a lost child. Then they stop. Jason can feel him standing right beside his shoulder. “What about you?” Dick asks. 

“Don’t touch me.” 

Dick’s hand falls to his side. “What about you?” he asks again.

“I don’t matter.”

“That’s not true.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Jason snaps. “You of all people should know I’m fucking crazy. Violent. Broken.” 

Taking a long breath, Dick shakes his head. “You’re not—”

“I am.”

“I can help you.” 

“Help someone else.” _Someone who deserves it._

“Jason.”

“I don’t want you here.” 

Maybe it’s the way he said it. The pathetic tremor in his voice, the whispered resignation. Or maybe Dick finally got it through his thick skull that some people aren’t worth saving. Yes, that must be it. That’s why Dick finally walks away. 

From the doorway, a soft voice.

“Goodbye, Jason.”

He grits his teeth and leans into the shelf, feeling the cold metal press against his burning forehead. _I’m sorry,_ he thinks. _I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the soulmate you deserve._

This time, when he cries, he lets the tears fall to the floor.

***

Soulmates don’t always work out. Dick knows this as well as he once knew the streets of Blüdhaven. Couples are torn apart by circumstance, time opens rifts between friends. And people fight. People cheat. People lie. 

To have a soulmate is to have the chance to be better. It doesn’t mean you have to take it. 

For some time Dick tries to carry on. Fixes his costume. Saves some people. Saves some different people. Leaves a voicemail on Babs’ answering machine, and another on Bruce’s. 

_I’m fine,_ he says. _I thought you might want to know that._

And he doesn’t actively look for Jason, but it would be a lie to say the young man doesn’t linger in the back of his mind. How many times had Dick seen a glimpse of red, the dark brown of a leather jacket, only to have his hope shattered? How many times had he stared at his hands, thinking about green eyes, full lips, the curve of white locks? 

He tries to tell himself that there are bigger things to worry about. A city to rebuild. People to save. But with every person he shields from harm, every person he brings to safety, Dick finds his thoughts returning to a familiar darkness.

_All alone. Help me. Pain. Pain. Please just let me die already._

_I don’t want you here,_ Jason had said. 

And Dick didn’t even try to stay, didn’t even try to help. He _left_ him there. Just like he left Bruce. Just like he left Babs. Just like he left Kory. Just like he left the Titans. Always leaving, never staying long enough to make a difference. 

Dick Grayson is selfish. Unfaithful. Unstable. A failure. No wonder his soulmate doesn’t want him.

By the time Dick found his way back, the bunker was emptied and Jason was gone. 

After the first week, his bruises disappear. He stares at himself in the mirror, hating that he notices their absence. _Not in his right mind,_ he thinks, then hates that he’s making excuses. Maybe he doesn’t know what to think. 

After the second week, he puts an alert on the Red Hood. He lies awake at night listening to police chatter. _It’s not about him,_ he tells himself. The dark circles beneath his eyes have taken up permanent residence. 

After the fourth week, when the Waynetech serum has been distributed throughout Blüdhaven, when the federal aid is pouring into the city, Dick feels safe enough to venture into Gotham. Just for a moment. 

Dick Grayson is a liar. 

It’s only during the sixth week, when Dick is still in Gotham, that he hears a familiar voice. His body freezes in place, caught up in the impossibility. He hasn’t slept in days. He was soaking in that Blüdhaven radiation for weeks. And even if he were correct, it wouldn’t matter. Jason doesn’t want him.

As he follows the sound, Dick thinks, _You’re gonna make it worse. You always make it worse._

He’s not in costume, but he moves as if he were. Sticking to the edge of the shoddy brick buildings, keeping his head low and his muscles loose. It’s morning in Gotham, and soft yellow light is creeping through the trees of Robinson Park. Not a lot of people out. Just a few people here and there: a woman jogging with a stroller, a couple walking a dog, a man cutting the weeds along the sidewalk. 

When he rounds the corner, his breath catches in his throat. 

Jason. 

Like Dick he’s in his civilian clothes, a pair of dark jeans, a tee shirt, and a leather jacket. The denim hugs his skin closely, stretching around the curve of his thighs, the muscle of his calves. Dick watches the fabric shift as Jason moves, bending to the ground to pick up several papers scattered over the sidewalk. The wound on his neck is little more than a thin pink line. 

_White-hot pain. Blood pouring down his neck. I’m going to die. I’m going to die—_

It hurts Dick to look at. Like the pain of it belonged to him and not to Jason. 

“Here,” Jason says gruffly, handing the papers to the red-faced woman standing beside him. 

She says something Dick can’t make out. A thank you, perhaps, or maybe an apology. 

In response Jason shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets, and continues walking down the street. He doesn’t walk like Dick remembers him to. No pent-up anger, no tightness that speaks of hidden doubts. There’s a certain quietness to him, a softness that the eye can’t see. 

_It wasn’t your fault_. _I’m sorry. For everything. You didn’t deserve that._

The memory of his words makes Dick’s stomach clench. 

He follows him two more blocks, slipping inside the nearest shop every time he thinks Jason is going to turn around. His heart is a drum in his throat; his feet carry him without his conscious input. It’s as if he’s being drawn forward, pulled by an invisible thread deeper into the shadows of Gotham. 

And then Jason is gone, and the thread goes limp. 

At night Dick lingers on the edge of a rooftop, staring over the grid of the city. In front of him: clusters of buildings. Beside him are empty train tracks lit by dull, flickering lights. The atmosphere is eerily silent. 

_He_ has _to be here,_ Dick thinks, his head snapping toward every object that moves in the darkness. The police scanner in his hand is buzzing with the usual: a domestic dispute, a suspicious figure loitering outside the gas station. Nothing that would attract the attention of the Red Hood. Nothing like—

_There._

He swings down from the roof, landing without a sound on the cracked asphalt below. It takes him less than a minute to bridge the distance between himself and the abandoned tracks, and less than ten seconds to climb atop an old boxcar. 

Jason is half-hidden in the darkness, looking more like a shadow than a man. He’s armed, heavily, just as he was when they fought in Gotham a couple of months ago. Guns, knives, explosives, everything. For the briefest moment Dick’s breath catches in his throat— _he’s going to hurt people, he’s going to hurt people and it will be my fault—_ but then he catches the gentleness of Jason’s posture, the way his hands remain pointedly away from his weapons. 

The guilt retreats back into his core. 

“Hey,” Jason says. The helmet muffles the gruffness in his voice, evening his tone and inflection. 

_Shit._ Dick builds an excuse on his tongue, nearly stepping into the open before he sees a trio of smaller shadows before Jason’s feet and pauses once more. 

Children. 

“Are you okay?” Jason asks. He crouches down, cocks his head. “It’s alright, I won’t hurt you.” 

“You won’t?” one of them asks. 

Jason’s helmet comes off with a soft hiss. Dick’s stomach twists at the sight of his face: tender eyes, curved brow, lips twitching with the hint of the smile. For the first time he sees a ghost of the Jason he used to know, that bright, fearless teen. The Robin. 

“Do you have a home?” Jason asks them. 

No response. 

“Where are you going?” 

Again, no response. 

He’s gentle, more gentle than Dick has ever seen him. There’s no heat in his gaze, no tension in his upper arms, nothing but a quiet smile as he speaks to the children and writes down the address of Leslie’s clinic. And Dick can only watch, captivated by the person, the _man_ before him. 

Jason is hurting. Dick knows this like he knows himself, perhaps even deeper than that. He knows this like he knows constants: the angle of the sun cutting through his bedroom window, the weight of his escrima sticks resting in his fists, the guilt swimming through his veins, the wrinkle in Bruce’s brow. And yet, despite all the hurt and the trauma, he still has the capacity for _this._

It’s enough to make Dick shatter. 

After Jason sends the children away, emptiness washes over his expression. His jaw twitches. Light catches in his sea-green eyes, his eyelids, the crest of his cheeks. Not crying, but close. Still hurting. 

Then his helmet is on again, and Jason slips into shadow. 

Dick follows. And follows. And follows. It’s a compulsion of sorts, a drive he is afraid to unpack. He blames it on what they’ve shared, on the concept of soulmates in general. This isn't him. This is fate.

Dick Grayson is lying once again. 

In the days that pass he sees more of the same. Jason giving money to the hunched figures on street corners. Jason kneeling on the ground by an open tin of cat food, clicking his tongue and fingers at a mangy stray. Jason sitting by that old gargoyle of his, reading heavy books with thin pages while his legs dangle in the open air. His knuckles are raw and bloodied. 

Dick stares at his hands and wishes to press each cut against his lips. _It’s okay,_ he wants to say. _I’m here. I see you, Little Wing._

***

Gotham nights are dryer than they used to be. 

Sitting in the shadow of the gargoyle, Jason peers out over the city, kicking his feet through empty sky. The corners of his lips are dry and cracking, and his fingertips are the same. When he blinks, his eyes feel cool against the underside of his eyelids. Everything aches. 

Jason breathes deeply, letting his head fall back toward the sky. Nothing. No moon, no stars, no Bat Signal. Just rolling clouds the color of mud. 

_Fucking light pollution,_ he thinks. 

It’s not that it hasn’t always been this way. Rather, the nights felt more striking back then, more forgiving. Jason can still feel the rush of cool wind against his cheeks, the jolt that traveled up his legs as his feet hit the pavement. 

God. Not even ten years ago. And yet his body aches and there are lines on his skin, bags beneath his eyes. He forgets where he left things. His ears are ringing, always. And after those rare nights where sleep comes to him, he wakes exhausted, blinking away thoughts of deep blue eyes and strong hands. 

Who knew dying could make you so _old?_

He stays still for a moment, listening to the sounds of the city. Car horns. Sirens. Distant music. Something scraping against the stone behind him. The tell-tale scuffle of footsteps. 

His heart leaps without his permission. 

_Dick,_ Jason thinks, but he doesn’t turn around. He’s learned not to. Because Dick isn’t really there; he _couldn’t_ be there. After all Jason did to him, he has every right to stay as far away as possible, soulmates or no. Dick deserves so much more. Dick deserves the _world._

And Dick doesn’t even realize that. 

Jason waits another ten seconds before looking, casually, as if he were just stretching his spine in a twist. Nothing. Not even a fucking pidgeon. 

He stares at the empty space for too long, feeling his guts twist into a knot. The texture of the building is suddenly distinct between his palms: the rough grain of the concrete, the tiny stones embedded within, the soft sheen of dust lying over it all. 

Touch. All of this, because of a touch. 

Clenching his jaw, Jason turns to look back over the city. He can’t see Blüdhaven from this position, but he can imagine it. Gray and ravaged. No different from that night on the roof, right before Bruce—

His scarred fingers tighten over the edge. He can’t think about that. Not again. 

The old man is too stubborn to learn without loss. There’s a way to show him the truth—there _has_ to be, Jason refuses to believe there isn’t, but he just doesn’t have the energy. It’s as if he’s been split open and carved apart. Nothing left but a shell, an empty husk. Jason can’t even remember the last time he wanted anything, let alone the last time he felt anything other than utter, violent _apathy._

If he believed in soulmates—and he still doesn’t, because how can a hero like _Dick_ be tethered to a sinner like _him_ —Jason might have thought that this emptiness was a consequence of separation. The red string of fate has been pulled too tight, and he has come undone. He is just a shape taking up space, a thing that used to be Jason Peter Todd. 

When he stands, his feet prick with numbness. It takes him half a minute of leaning against the gargoyle before he knows he won’t stumble over the edge. But even then he stays still, looking at the space between himself and the streets. 

Shit. He really needs something to take his mind off of things. Like a drink, or a fight. 

Jason climbs down without thinking, relying on muscle memory to get his feet from ledge to ledge, his hands from pipe to brick to fire escape. By the time he makes it to the ground, he is trembling from the chill and something else he can’t place. It’s only one in the morning. Not even close to halfway through the night. 

How he’ll make it through the rest of his life, he has no idea. 

As he walks down the oil-slick Gotham streets, he kicks a stone, then another. The scuffle makes him feel less alone. Like someone is walking with him. 

Without meaning to, Jason looks at the emptiness at his side, imagines the shape of Dick filling its space. Those bright blue eyes watching him. The beautiful smile that was always stretching across his face. _You did good, Little Wing._

If only they had known, back then.

Another stone. It skids over the pavement, then comes to a stop ten feet ahead of him. But before he can kick it again, he hears that familiar scrape. Footsteps. 

Jason turns quickly, looking for an alley-cat or some idiot who thinks he’s an easy-target because it’s past midnight and he’s walking the street in his civvies. But there’s nothing there. Only darkness. 

Licking his lips, he says, “I know you’re there.” 

Nothing moves in the darkness. 

“Don’t try anything stupid,” Jason calls into the black. “I’m warning you.” 

Finally, movement. The figure is a blur at first, the general shape of a man stepping from shadow. Then the vision sharpens. He looks different in jeans and a henley, but it’s still him. Tanned skin, wind-swept hair, ocean eyes glinting in the street lights. Dick.

Something catches in Jason’s throat. 

“What are you doing?” he demands, stepping back as Dick comes closer. “I told you—I told you to stay away from me.” 

Dick pauses. “I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says. 

“You mean you wanted to make sure I wasn’t killing anyone.”

“No. Not at all.”

Jason doesn’t have the strength to start hoping. Wringing his hands together, he says, “I don’t matter.” 

“That’s not true,” Dick replies. Another step closer. “Everyone matters.” 

“Did _he_ put you up to this?” 

Another step. Dick shakes his head.

There’s only ten feet between them. Jason can almost feel the heat of his skin, the soft brush of Dick’s fingers against his cheek… 

“I hurt you,” he says. “Dick, I _chained_ you. I _beat_ you.”

“You weren’t in your right mind.”

“That’s no excuse. Even with all the—even with all the _crazy,_ I knew what I was doing. I knew what I was doing…” He pauses, remembering the heaviness of the pipe in his hand. The dull thud of metal striking skin. A fresh guilt spreads throughout his core. “I’m not worthy of your time, let alone your forgiveness.” 

Dick’s brow furrows. His fingers twitched at his sides. “Maybe some people are past the point of redemption,” he says quietly, “but I don’t think you’re one of them.”

“Don’t—”

“You’re my soulmate, Little Wing. Am I just supposed to let you go?”

Jason’s gut clenches at the nickname. When he tries to speak, the words fade at the tip of his tongue. He can only stare at Dick’s hands, wanting to hide them with his own, wanting to press them against his heart, his cheeks. _I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry._

At last, he mutters, “Why were you following me?” 

Dick pauses. The look on his face is all Jason needs.

“How long has this been going on?”

“A while.”

Jason tries and fails to ignore the churning inside him. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Chewing his lip, he takes another step. “It felt like the right thing to do.” 

“Fate isn’t real, if that’s what you’re saying.” 

“It’s not.”

Jason can’t look at him anymore. Can’t move. “I’m so sorry, Dick. You don’t deserve—I’m sorry.”

Dick takes another step forward. Five feet. Now his hands are twisting over each other. “Jason,” he says quietly. Sincerely. “Jason, I forgive you.” 

“You shouldn’t.” 

“Well, too bad. I did.” He smiles softly. “No take-backsies.” 

Jason’s vision blurs. Taking a shaky breath, he forces his gaze back toward the pavement, blinking away the sudden wetness. “I need—I need to go,” he says, already turning to leave.

And then warm hand wraps around his wrist. 

_Don’t go. Please don’t go. I see you. Hurting. Not a bad person. You’ve done so much good already. I’m sorry. I forgive you._

_I love you._

Jason tears his hand away, gasping for breath as he rubs the spot where Dick had touched him. It burns in the icy air. Just like his face. Just like his core. And when he tries to speak, he chokes on the words. 

Dick’s brow is soft. He stares into Jason’s face, then at his own hand. There’s a slight tremor in his fingers, his lips. “Jay, I—”

Jason breaks into a sprint. 

Boots scraping over asphalt. Heart jumping up and down, up and down, coming out of his mouth. _I love you._ Right, left, right. Jumping for the scaffolding. Scrambling up. Rough wood bites his palms. _I love you._ Climbing onto the roof. Wind stings his eyes. He’s crying again. Can’t breathe. Can’t stop running. _I love you._

_Never wanted back then. Never wanted again._

His toe strikes something hard. Jason grunts as he tumbles forward, rolling over the textured surface of the roof. Pain erupts across his ankles, elbow, tongue. The taste of copper fills his mouth. 

When he stands, he finds himself staring up at the night sky. The clouds are pushing toward the bay, revealing an open patch of blinking stars. It’s a sight too pretty for Gotham.

Only a few seconds pass before Dick finds him. Because _of course_ Dick finds him, because Dick is _attentive._ Dick is _good._ Dick is _selfless._

_I love you._

The same voice: “Are you alright?”

“Why?” Jason asks softly.

“You fell,” Dick says. 

“No.” Shaking his head, Jason tries to keep his voice steady. “Why would…why would you feel those things?”

Those things. _I love you._

Dick takes a deep breath. After a moment, he asks, “Why not?” 

“Because I don’t deserve that.” 

“That’s not—”

“—it _is_ true,” Jason says. He rubs his wrist again, staring out over the crowded city skyline. “I mean, do you know what people see when they look at you, Dickiebird? What I see?”

“I’m just a person.”

“No matter what you think, you’re not a failure, Dick. You’re a hero. A friend. Leader. Inspiration. Role model.” He lets out a soft laugh to distract himself from the ache inside his chest. “Don’t you see what you are to other people? Don’t you understand that you’re everything I can’t be?”

Something desperate crosses Dick’s face. “I saw you,” he says. Almost an accusation. “I saw all those people you helped. Like I said. Some people are beyond redemption, Jason, but you’re not one of them.”

 _You're wrong,_ Jason thinks, but he can’t bring himself to say it. He can’t bring himself to say anything. If he speaks, he might say something he shouldn’t, something he’s thought for a long time, something that Dick no doubt already knows.

His wrist burns with the memory of a brief touch. 

“You made me a better person,” he says at last. His voice is barely audible over the rushing wind, the sound of cars passing on distant expressways. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t look at Dick. Everything hurts. “The best thing I can do for you is leave.”

Shaking his head, Dick says, “That’s not true. Stop saying that.”

“Maybe one day you’ll find someone who’s worthy of you.”

“Dammit, Jason! I don’t want anyone else!” Dick cries. He drags his fingers through his hair, breathing hard. Then, softly: “I want _you,_ Jason. I _love_ you. And I know you—”

He stops suddenly, letting the rough wind carry his thought toward the distant water. Doesn’t matter. Jason knows what he was going to say anyway. 

_And I know you love me too._

Jason stares at the surface of the roof, half a breath from falling apart. Each time he breathes he feels a knife slide deeper between his ribs. “Dick, I—”

His words are scattered by the shock of lips against his own. 

Time stops. Jason’s core seizes tight, freezing and cracking like hot glass in snow. He moves, he breaks. Locked tight even as the fever of Dick’s want pours into him.

_I love you I love you can’t you see that you are worthy of love…_

A pair of hands find his shoulders and set him free. Jason gasps without breathing, thawing into the exploration of Dick’s fingers along his collarbone. Can’t shut his eyes or it will go away. Their mouths move together. Desire rolls through him like a gust of wind, or maybe the wind is there too. The world is lost.

By the time Dick pulls away, Jason isn’t far behind. 

Now it is too quiet. Dick’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes caught between concern and longing. His lips are swollen and parted slightly, and no matter how hard he tries Jason can’t stop looking at them, can’t stop wanting to feel them again.

“Dick,” he says. It’s the only thing he can say. The only named thing in all the universe. 

A quiet smile flickers over Dick’s lips. “Jason.”

There’s nothing new to say, nothing left to protest. Floating through the abyss, caught in the gravity of each other. And then Jason knows neither of them will ever let go. 

He draws Dick into his arms and seals their lips with a kiss. 

If their first was ice, the second is fire. Lightning crackles across his chest, down his spine. Dick’s fingers are so hot, his mouth aflame, and Jason is reduced to embers. 

_I love you, Pretty Bird,_ he thinks, exploring the curves of Dick’s waist. _I love you and I love you and you deserve love more than anyone, you are so worthy of love…_

Dick grunts softly as Jason pins him against the wall of the adjacent building and scatters kisses over his jaw. He squirms against Jason’s body— _kiss me harder,_ he’s thinking—so Jason does, stealing the breath from his lips.

 _Closer._

He nuzzles the crook of Dick’s neck, drunk on the scent of his skin. “You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, slipping his fingers beneath his shirt to feel the hard ridges of muscle over his core. “So beautiful.” 

The moment won’t end. Jason holds Dick in place, arches into him until there’s no room for air between them. His hands in Dick’s hair, on his chest. Dick’s hands on his shoulder blades. And Dick is filling his mouth, thinking of all the things he wants—the _things_ he wants—and stars burst beneath Jason’s eyelids. 

_I love you,_ he thinks. Dick thinks. They think. 

After, Jason holds Dick against him in a gentle embrace, feeling the gentle tremors of his breath. Dick’s fingers flit through his hair, over the back of his neck. Never quite leaving him.

_Jason. Close. Heavy limbs. Worthy of love. Haven’t slept. So tired._

“It’s late,” Jason whispers. And it is. The city is tranquil in its silence; exhaustion weighs them toward the earth. 

Dick nods. His hair tickles the side of Jason’s neck; his heartbeat is a rhythm to fall into. When new images filter into Jason’s mind— _Warm. Safe. I love you—_ he can’t tell who they belong to. Maybe that is the point.

Slowly, Dick pulls away. “Come on, Little Wing,” he says, smiling. When he offers, Jason takes his hand, holding tight. A fresh love radiates from the place where they meet. 

And together they think: _I’m home._

**Author's Note:**

> Extra thanks to Empires and Penta for running the exchange, and to my beta for making me delete all my semi-colons :)


End file.
